Lost And Found
by SassyJ
Summary: Raylan comes to realise what his co-workers mean to him when Tim goes missing after an operation goes wrong.
1. Lost

Every inch of Tim's body was aching, but his leg was pure agony. Although his memories of the event were hazy he was sure he had stepped in some kind of snare, there was a deep gash in his leg which throbbed with every movement.

Not that he was in any kind of position to move much. He was lying in a bath. She had cuffed him with his own cuffs to the taps in the bath, his injured leg was propped on the edge.

He tried to move again, call out to her to help him, but she was too far gone, far away into some world all her own. He had watched her break apart as she dragged him into the house. He tried to tell her he was a lawman, but he was dizzy and disorientated and hurting, and she wasn't listening. She was mumbling some gibberish about aliens and government. She dragged him across the floor with the strength of insanity and dumped him into the bath tub. He didn't put up much of a struggle as she found his cuffs and cuffed his wrists to the taps.

He hadn't eaten since before the operation that had gone so badly wrong, and she refused to come near him only peered at him from the doorway. The only water came from his desperate attempts to suck up enough moisture from the leaking tap. His leg was infected. He was hot and cold, and sick, and terrified. Because she was mad, and she might just leave him in the tub to starve.

He only wanted the pain to stop.

He prayed. To Art, and Raylan, and Rachel… _please find me, before it's too late, I don't want to die here._ It was Raylan that he saw the most, Raylan was smart and persistent and devious in ways that even the most determined criminal couldn't avoid. _Ray-Ray, I need your help…_

* * *

They were all worried, Tim's rifle found in an alley, some kind of medieval looking snare with blood on it, now confirmed to be Tim's blood, and no sign of their missing agent. The Marshals were out beating the bushes, and Raylan was beside himself.

Fear and anger were fighting a monstrous battle in Raylan's head. They had begun with the apartment block next to the alley, and drawn a blank, Raylan tamped down on his fear and pinned his most charming smile to his face, forcing himself to be calm and pleasant when he really wanted to shove every unwilling, grudging resident up against the wall and demand what they had done with his friend.

Tim was alone, injured, no idea how badly, and it was all Raylan's fault. He should have been with Tim when the operation went wrong. They were busy rounding up the players they could catch. Tim had seen one guy sneaking away, hollered to Raylan and Raylan had just let him go.

The crime scene people had swept the alley in a fingertip search, while Raylan had fidgeted, and chafed and found it impossible to settle. When they'd found the remains of the flash-bang and Raylan could see his partner, dazed and dis-orientated, stumbling into that evil looking trap, practically hear Tim's scream of pain as the trap sprung, trapping his leg. Or at least, he hoped it was Tim's leg, he didn't want to think of how bad the injuries would be if it was an arm.

Dragging his thoughts away from injuries and mutilations and other horrors which he couldn't begin to articulate but swam at the edge of his consciousness like circling sharks, Raylan focused his attention on his other partner. Rachel was as desperate to find Tim as he was, perhaps she would be able to keep his mind off the horrors.

Rachel's face was pinched with distress, and her normal calm assurance was shaken to its core. It was the first time they had lost someone from the office.

_Not lost_. If he started to think that Tim was lost, he wouldn't be able to function. He looked down at his hands, seeing the tremors there. He'd had the yips before, but that was more about the pain in his side when he was recovering from the gunshot wound sustained saving Loretta from a mistake which would have cost her her future.

It was Tim, he thought with a savage twist to his gut. Tim who had seen that he was flooding and afraid and too damn scared to admit to himself that he was afraid. Tim who had dragged him out of the office to go see Wynn Duffy. Tim who had held his fear up in front of him, shaken it hard, given him the long, scary look at who he was. Tim had given him his mojo back. He had never found the words to thank Tim, or acknowledge that Tim had done more for Raylan than Raylan had ever done for Tim.

Then there was that thing about boasting about Tim's skills to everyone they happened to be aiming at. Standing next to Tim, drawing down on criminals, talking about the apricot, and Tim's incredible marksmanship, better than Raylan's. Seeing Tim take shot after shot, dead centre, dead on. Raylan owed his life to Tim's marksmanship. That day at Mags Bennett's place, Doyle would have killed him for sure. He didn't need to see the shooter to know that it was Tim's shot that saved him.

* * *

He was drifting, so cold, the world around him faded and indistinct. Perhaps he was dying, he didn't want to die, but he couldn't hold on anymore. _Ray, please!_


	2. Found

They worked through the night. Making it 55 hours since Tim had disappeared. Tempers were short, sleep limited, but still they kept going. The morning of the third day they caught a break.

Raylan was checking and re-checking statements when Rachel came into the conference room.

"Fingerprints on the snare, on Tim's rifle." She held up the file. "Come back to a Penny Carsfield. I checked the system, she was reported missing by her boyfriend three months ago from her dorm room in UK." She pushed the open file over to Raylan.

His fingers trembled as he picked up the file. "Oh… shit." He was on his feet. "I interviewed her yesterday, thought she seemed nervous." Whatever the hell Penny had done to Tim, she was going to answer his questions. "Art? Art…" Raylan practically fell through the Chief's office door. "We've got a lead on Tim."

Art murmured something into the phone and hung up. "Do you have an address?"

"Yeah." Distress made Raylan's voice tight. "I was there, yesterday. I walked right past… if she's hurt him…"

Art grabbed Raylan's arm. "You can't think like that. Tim is relying on you, Raylan."

Raylan got the point, _pull yourself together_. Well, shit. This time there was more at stake, and the image in his mind was Doyle standing above him, and a split second where time seemed to lag as the black hole appeared in the middle of Doyle's forehead. Raylan owed Tim his life.

Back to the apartment block they had searched on the first day. Raylan concentrated on what he had to do. This was nothing like Harlan, or the million and one tricky villains with their scams and their casual cruelty. This was a sick girl, and a Deputy US Marshal who had come to mean a lot to Raylan.

Tim Gutterson needed Raylan Givens' A game on this. Aware of the rest of the team to the left and right down the hall, Raylan paused in front of her door, and knocked.

"Yes." She looked vaguely bewildered again, but now Raylan could see it. Something was seriously off. And somewhere behind her in the gloomy apartment, Tim. He tried to keep his focus on her, because that was where it needed to be.

Raylan was good at talking, and she certainly seemed to be calming down, but with each breath his tension was ratcheting up. He was struggling to keep it gentle and respectful, when his instincts were to barge past her. But they couldn't do that, just in case they lost the chance to find Tim.

A footstep behind him, and hand on his arm. Rachel's voice…

"…I know it must be disturbing and confusing, all these people asking questions, but our friend is missing," to Raylan's surprise, Rachel pulled out her wallet and flipped it open, "we're worried about him," and Raylan's jaw almost dropped, Rachel was holding up a picture from the softball game only a few weeks ago, himself and Tim, either side of Rachel.

A flicker of recognition from Penny.

Rachel took over, keeping her voice calm and steady she used the technique he had used on the old man in LA when they were chasing Rolly Pike. A surge of pure emotion hit Raylan's gut as Rachel finally managed to open the door.

Aware that Rachel was guiding the girl to her couch, and the rest of the team was starting to move into the cold and depressing apartment, Raylan called Tim's name softly as he moved down the hall, opening doors.

"Oh god." Raylan had found Tim. He knelt by the tub, reaching out to place two shaking fingers on Tim's neck, searching for a pulse. It was there, it was weak but a lot steadier than he expected. "Tim… can you hear me…" Tim moaned, he was shivering with cold, and Raylan fumbled with his handcuff key, unlocking Tim's sore wrists. As Tim's arms flopped into his lap, his eyes opened just a crack, Tim's lips moved, and Raylan reached out desperately. He wanted Tim out of that freezing cold tub.

Raylan yelled for help and blankets, they were going to need an ambulance. But Raylan wanted Tim out of that tub, wanted to hold him in his arms and reassure himself that it was real, and Tim really was alive. So he did a crazy thing. Got to his feet, reached down into the tub, slid his arms around Tim's shoulders and under his knees and lifted.

Tim might have been three inches shorter than Raylan, but he was no lightweight. Sick and sore and drifting as he was he had nothing to give to help Raylan.

Raylan didn't care, he heaved his friend up in his arms, Tim's weight knocked him back a step, he hit the wall behind with a hefty thud, and then he was sliding down the wall to land on his ass on the floor, Tim cradled in his arms.

The jolt to Tim's injured leg caused a bemused moan, and another guilty stab to Raylan's gut. The girl was crazy, it wasn't her fault, but it sure as hell was Raylan's. If he'd only gone with Tim, this wouldn't have happened.

Art appeared in the doorway with a couple blankets he'd snatched up from somewhere, startled to find Raylan sitting on the floor holding Tim. Tim's head was resting against Raylan's shoulder, the fingers of Tim's left hand fisted in Raylan's shirt.

Art had to admit that this time he really didn't know what was going through Raylan's head, but then all thoughts of that shot out of his mind when Raylan pointed out Tim's leg.

Art knelt to take a look. The wound was just below the knee, a gash which almost went all the way round Tim's leg. The wound itself was hot to the touch, the flesh swollen and tight. _Damn_. Getting up slowly, Art moved out into the hallway to enquire where the damn ambulance was, because he had one deputy down, and a very sick and confused young lady in urgent need of psychiatric care, and would they mind getting a move on.

Tim was sick and hurting, and everything was all jumbled up, but he knew he was safe. His head was resting against a firm shoulder, blearily he opened his eyes a little. The checked shirt seemed familiar, the aftershave too. He was safe, all he had to do was hang on. He closed his fingers into the shirt, shut his eyes and hung on. It would be alright… He drifted away.


	3. Confusion

Tim awkwardly lifted his leg off its comfortable perch, a pillow on a small stack of boxes right next to his desk, positioned his crutches and heaved himself to his feet. _Damn_. Okay he was milking his injury a little, but that really hurt. Five days since Raylan had pulled him out of that bathtub, and he thought that his leg should be feeling better than it was.

After the big rescue, for the first day Tim slept, vaguely aware that there was someone there every time he surfaced but the someone said nothing, just patted his hand in a soothing manner, so Tim just drifted back under. The next day he woke, a bit fuzzy and bleary but otherwise functioning. The first thing his eyes focused on was a pair of cowboy boots, Tony Lama, long, lanky legs covered in skinny Levis. Tim turned his head, Raylan was sleeping, if you could call it that in a nasty looking plastic chair, elbow on the arm, chin on his hand, and his faithful hat slanted forward shielding the light from his eyes.

They were friends 'n' all, but bed-side vigils? It wasn't the work of genius to tell that Raylan had been there all night. Tim peered at the shirt, vague memories of the blue and magenta check up close and personal. Hmmmm. More than a night.

And that was just the beginning. By the time Tim was awake and ready to get out of there, it was obvious to him that Raylan Givens was on a serious guilt trip. The full tour, with added optional extras. He graciously accepted the ride home, although the self-invitation to stay to help Tim out seemed a bit over anxious, but one look at Raylan's expression and Tim accepted that too.

Two fried chicken dinners and a tub of vanilla ice-cream later, and Tim was no nearer working out what exactly the problem was.

Two days of Raylan's 'nursing' skills, and Tim was more than ready to go back to work, even with Givens perched at his shoulder like a disconsolate raven about to cry _Nevermore_. Tim could just about bear weight on his leg, but there was something curiously entertaining about spinning it out just a little. After all the crap that Raylan had pulled in the eighteen months or so that they had known each other, it seemed wholly justified.

So, having heaved himself upright, aware that Raylan had put the file down that he was pretending to be engrossed in and was practically quivering like a greyhound after a rabbit, Tim commenced the slow, painful and, he had to admit, slightly pitiful limp to the bathroom.

Rachel followed Tim's slow progress across the office floor, then turned her concerned gaze to his anxious partner. Art paused by her desk with a file, "Raylan does know that Tim isn't really that sick?"

Rachel nodded, "but there's knowing and then there's knowing, and Raylan… well…" she trailed off.

Art had that look on his face again, shrewd, assessing, and Rachel knew she was about to be in receipt of one of Art's homespun pieces of wisdom so she was surprised when Art said, "he's not shooting anybody, so these next few days should be mighty restful."

True. Raylan was not shooting anybody, but he was anxious and tense in a way that Rachel hadn't seen him before. She knew that couldn't be good. But getting Raylan to open up about anything, well, she'd seen clams with less clam than Raylan Givens.

Rachel opened the file that Art dropped in her in-tray and contemplated the twin problems of Mr Cody Teed, drug dealer and all round idiot, and Raylan Givens, Deputy Marshal and pain in the ass. This was Rachel's third dance with the pathetic Mr Teed, he repeated on her roughly every ten months or so.

Cody Teed was young, as dumb as a box of rocks, and didn't even appear to possess sufficient smarts to stay out of trouble for a year at a time. That Rachel had to go looking for his scrawny ass three times in the three years since they had first met irritated her. She raised her eyes from the file and stared across the bullpen to Raylan, she figured Tim was still in the bathroom because Raylan was fidgeting, flicking glances at the door which were anything but casual and looking as though he was about to throw up.

Rachel quietly buried her own ego. Now was not the time for pride, besides it would be good for Raylan to share her pain. Cody Teed on a Friday was just wrong. So Raylan was coming with her, _call it misery loves company_.

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Tim sat on the stool in the disabled toilet, and stared at his injured leg. Unable to get his regular pants on, he was wearing track warm-ups with the snaps undone to accommodate the heavy bandage which ran from above his knee to mid calf. The wound had been thoroughly cleaned, stitched and the doctor had said it would heal by itself. Six days since he stepped in the trap, and he would have expected the pain to have subsided more than it had. He looked at the bottle of pain pills in his hand, he really didn't want to pop another, they might kill the pain but they made him feel lethargic and depressed.

_Damn_. He shoved the pill bottle back into his pocket, set his crutches and heaved himself to his feet, the crutches were doing quite a lot for his upper body strength, good thing, since visiting the gym was out of the question.

Maybe he had been hamming it up a little for Raylan's benefit, but that didn't mean that the pain wasn't real. Tim forced himself to put his foot down. The pain that twanged his knee cap as he extended his leg was nothing to the jolt that came when he put weight on it. But Tim was tough, so he clamped down fiercely on the urge to scream and did it again. All the way back to his desk.

He was shaking, and his palms were slippery with sweat by the time he reached his seat. He sat down, glanced across and saw that Raylan was gone. Uncertain whether to be sorry or not, he looked down, the file he was working on had a small pink heart-shaped post it note that declared, in Rachel's handwriting, that she had gone out and taken Raylan with her and they would be back to take Tim home.

Tim had never really considered Rachel as the heart-shaped post it note kind of woman, but under the circumstances… He sat up a little straighter, _damn_… no idea where that thought was going but nowhere good. He could almost hear Raylan, _just keep taking the tablets_. Well taking the tablets was making him miserable, and not taking the tablets was apparently sending him loopy.

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Rachel was starting to wish that she hadn't felt sorry for Raylan Givens. Or at least sorry enough to drag him away from his rather disturbing vigil over Tim's injury. It was definitely past time to make him realize that what happened was never his fault.

"Y'do know that what happened to Tim, wasn't y'fault? Don't you?" She emphasized the _don't you…_

"huh." He had tilted his hat forward, and was now hiding under the brim, but the brief glimpse she got of his eyes, she had never seen Raylan actually miserable before. Like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

"Raylan, it was just bad luck." She persisted. "You do know that."

"Rache…" he tilted his hat back, his eyes still downcast and miserable, "it was my fault that I wasn't there."

"And what would have happened if she had trapped both of you? Or you instead of Tim? How do you think that the outcome would have been any different?"

"You didn't see him." Raylan's unhappy sounding reply. "In that bathtub. I thought he was dead for a moment. And I had put him there, because I was pissed that the plan was a mess and we missed the idiot we were actually after."

"So we got him the next day. And Tim is going to be fine."

"It's the first time I've nearly killed one of my own." Raylan said doggedly.

Rachel sighed. Raylan didn't do this angst thing, there was something else at the back of it, and the chances of worming it out of him were almost zero at that point. She had to find another opening.

She changed the subject. "Mr Cody Teed…"


	4. Heat

Movie night and Art had a new barbecue to baptize. Tim debated with himself whether or not to go, he wasn't feeling all that good, but Art gave good barbecue, and who knew, maybe a night with his friends might help him feel better.

Not that Raylan wouldn't just drag him along anyway, but Tim decided he wanted to go.

The debate over which movie was something of a draw. Art wanted Spaceballs, Raylan wanted Out of Sight, which Art and Rachel howled down _no busman's holiday_ and besides which Art really didn't want to see a movie that had Karen Goodhall as chief advisor, Tim really didn't know what he wanted, History of The World, Part One sounded really good but in between barbecue and the tension in his head he just let the others get on with it and said nothing, so Rachel came out on top with Leslie backing her up.

"Salmon Fishing In The Yemen it is then." Art shook his head in disbelief, but got the disk in and started playing it.

Barbecue was awful good, but somehow the smells didn't tempt Tim as much as he hoped they might. He barely registered that Raylan had moved closer, but suddenly Raylan's shoulder looked mighty comfortable.

He hurt, his leg felt like it was on fire and the rest of him was being scorched.

"Tim." A nice warm, motherly voice was calling his name, and he smiled. A gentle hand stroked his hair and felt his forehead.

Then Raylan's voice, "C'mon darlin' I think you need your bed." That was very nice too, because Raylan had called him darling.

He let them lift him to his feet, but that wouldn't do, "arms round my neck, Tim." Sleepily he complied, Raylan scooped him up, staggered under his weight, and then they were moving, Tim's head drooping against Raylan's shoulder.

Then he was lying down on a bed and hands were touching his leg. It hurt a lot, and Tim moaned in protest.

Leslie Mullen had worked all areas of the hospital. Five years in ER, another five in theatre after she returned to work after her first baby, and then several years on different wards until she retired. Tim's leg was hot, and sore, and the closer she got to the dressing, the worse things got.

Tim was obviously in considerable distress, flinching when Leslie touched the bandages. Until Raylan lay down next to Tim and pulled the younger man close to his chest.

Tim burrowed against his friend and lay still. Finally Leslie could get the bandages off.

The last few turns of the bandage were gooey and stained with fluids, the dressings were soaked in draining lymph and the whole thing had a fairly unpleasant aroma. The flesh beneath the dressings swollen and hot to the touch.

"He's got another infection." Leslie got to her feet. "Art, get a bowl of hot water, and my supplies from the bathroom cabinet."

Art rushed to comply, and Raylan held on to Tim, who was resting against his shoulder, and tried not to mind the sight as his boss's wife cleaned the shoddy work that the doctor had done.

When the pile of sterilized swabs had gone from a tiny mound to almost a bucketful, Leslie finally pronounced herself satisfied with the cleanliness of the wound, then came dressings and a clean bandage. By the time she was done Tim had fallen asleep with his head on Raylan's shoulder. Raylan's eyes were mostly closed and he barely acknowledged what Leslie was saying.

She smiled. They both needed a night's sleep, and since they were both either there or nearly there, she picked up the comfort quilt from the chair in the corner of the room. Noted that Raylan had actually toed out of his boots before lying down on her bed, she covered them over and gently tucked them in, tried not to be amused when Raylan sleepily muttered something, rolled and gathered Tim even closer.

Art and Rachel were hovering outside the door. Leslie sighed, "Art, I'm going to call Tom in the morning, there's no point in taking him back to the hospital, Tim's leg needs to be seen by someone good."

Tom Warden was an old friend, Art acknowledged the wisdom of that as Leslie said "it looks like we have two houseguests."

Art rolled his eyes.

Rachel hid a smile, and shared a look of feminine understanding with Leslie.

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Epiphanies were a bitch. Especially if they came at 6am, when waking up was a chore that had to be completed, and the day was going to force him away from Tim's side.

It was hard to leave. Not that Tim wasn't in good hands, but that it was his fault that he was in the position in the first place.

No. More than that. His fault, true enough. But Tim was nice to hold, and in that space where exhaustion fought duty of care and won, the kiss was a magic incantation of promises.

Raylan wasn't an idiot. He knew that it would be damn easy to love Tim. They only had to look at each other, and Raylan only had to start talking about apricots and knowing that this shit made Tim hard.

He made Tim hard. That's why he boasted about Tim's skills every opportunity he got, because it made Tim hard and the knowledge of that made Raylan very hard indeed.

It wasn't just the shit, it was Raylan's words. He could look at Tim and go weak and hard at the same time.

It was love. Real, honest-to-god unconditional love. It was burning a hole in his heart, and the devil's coach and four through his defenses.

Now he had to get up, so that he could go home and change in time for work, and he would have to leave the loved one. It just seemed to happen that he would mark his place with a kiss.

Tim's lips were soft and kissable, and Raylan only intended it to be a quick peck. But Tim moaned sleepily, his lips parted and the tip of his tongue caressed Raylan's bottom lip. That was all the invitation that Raylan's already shaky self-control needed.

The kiss was hot, and slow, and sensual and Raylan's body wanted to demand more, but Tim was sick and hurting and that would be too cruel. Head ruled heart as Raylan gently banked the fires down. Slipped from the bed, tucked the bedding very carefully around Tim, who moaned something slurred and a bit irritable, and cuddled into the warm place that Raylan had left.

Raylan threw his clothes on, bent to kiss Tim softly on the forehead, scribbled a hasty but heart-felt note to Leslie and Art and departed before his body prompted him to do something that might have set back Tim's recovery.


	5. Recovery

Tim woke with a heavy feeling in his limbs, and the vague sense that something was missing. That the missing something might just have been a tall, lanky cowboy who was both a good… _no possibly his best_ friend, and the bane of his existence was something that Tim wasn't feeling up to examining.

He was in a strange bed, his leg was throbbing, and his crutches were nowhere to be seen. He had very vague and jumbled memories of how he might have arrived where he was.

He was just trying to work out how he was going to go looking for answers without his crutches with a leg he couldn't actually bear weight on for any length of time when the door opened and Leslie entered with a tray.

"Tim?"

He went to sit up, and flushed a deep crimson when he realised that he was as weak as a kitten.

Leslie put the tray down, and moved to help him. In no time he found himself propped up by well-plumped pillows, with a tray in his lap, and Leslie was handing him a couple of tablets and a glass of water. He tried to protest that it was all too much and he shouldn't be monopolizing her time or her spare bed like that.

But Leslie shook her head. "Tim, you need some food inside of you. Have some breakfast and I've called a friend, Doctor Tom, to come and give a second opinion on your leg."

Toasted muffins, soft cheese, turkey sausage, a small bowl of fresh blueberries and raspberries and a glass of orange juice, Tim was about to mention that he never ate that much for breakfast weekdays, but his stomach rumbled and he called forth vague memories of dissing Art's barbecue the night before. So he thanked Leslie and began to make some inroads into the enormous pile of food on the tray.

Having eaten as much as he could manage, he set the tray aside. He still felt hot and a little drowsy, he turned on his side and huddled down. One of the pillows smelled a little of Raylan's soap and aftershave. He didn't want to think why that might feel comforting, but it did, so he clutched the pillow close and settled, and if his dreams were of a tall lanky cowboy with a beautiful, wide slow smile and a kiss that was both gentle and needy at the same time, well a man could dream.

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Tom Vails had rarely seen a more poorly done job than the original fix on Tim's leg. With very gentle and patient care he rectified the shoddy treatment under local anaesthetic. Gave Tim two shots in his hip that the marshal was not particularly happy about, left two different kinds of medication than the pair of medications that were not doing an adequate job for Tim, and said that he would call back in two days to see the patient. Tim was to stay off the leg until he had been checked out to see if a more drastic treatment was required.

It was both tiring and stressful for Tim, and he was relieved when the doctor finished dressing and bandaging the wound. As the local wore off his leg began to hurt again and he felt slightly queasy, so he cuddled back down into the bed, clutching the pillow with its comforting scents.

Leslie watched him get comfortable and smiled. Tim looked absurdly young even unshaven, she remembered Art's little diatribe if his marshals continued to get younger, it was making him feel older. "Gutterson looks about fourteen sometimes, but he's a decorated Ranger Sniper." The look on Art's face was a little sad but very fond. Having met the young man now several times socially, Leslie was glad that Art had him. Tim was a nice young man.

She was fond of Raylan too, even if lord knew the boy was a worry. The mess that Raylan kept making of his life. But this was a different kind of worry, Leslie had not missed the tension and anxiety in Raylan. Even though Art was there to help Raylan had scooped Tim into his arms as though the young man was the most precious thing in the world and Raylan didn't want to let go. Art had said that Raylan was blaming himself for how Tim was injured but Leslie had the feeling that was only part of the problem. The lanky marshal was thinner, his hair was longer and growing out of style, he looked pained and tired and more deeply stressed than he had ever seemed before. Seeing him the previous night, Leslie knew Raylan was an adult, could make his own decisions, but that didn't stop her radar pinging. Raylan Givens was close to some sort of episode and it didn't take a twenty-seven year nursing career to tell her that.

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Raylan was having a bad day. Nothing was right, from miss-filed paperwork, to a tiresome prisoner transfer, where an increasingly stressed and ill-tempered Raylan was forced to sit next to pee-wee whiner called Mos Crawley all the way back to Big Sandy.

The worst part of the day, apart from driving around for almost four hours with the chattering fool Crawley next to him, Raylan was trying to figure out how he could get himself an invitation to Tim's bedside for at least a few hours, even if he couldn't stay the night. He just needed to know that Tim was alright. If he closed his eyes he could picture a number of distressing situations where Tim was anything but alright, and a pair of accusing blue eyes were looking straight at Raylan, and Tim's voice was saying "it's all your fault, you were supposed to…" Raylan's mind would blank out the rest of the statement but the feeling persisted.

He had to see for himself.

Art had given up trying to second guess Raylan years ago, but he couldn't deny what Leslie had said. Raylan did indeed look close to the edge of a very steep precipice. In moments of repose, Raylan's expression would take on a look of grief and pain that scared Art.

Raylan's main problem seemed to be his inability to relate to someone on a personal level and maintain a relationship. Sure he was handsome and flirtatious, and a trail of angry women scattered in his wake, but somehow he just couldn't hold on to any of them. It was a source of sorrow to Art that his relationship with Winona had foundered so badly.

Now apparently he had imprinted on Tim, which was so far out of the Raylan operating manual, that Art was totally at a loss to comprehend what was best for a next move. Apparently it was a two-way street, according to Leslie, but Art did have his doubts about that. However Leslie had said bring the boy home with him. Even if Raylan knew there was an open invitation to Art and Leslie's home any time for his team, Art knew that Raylan would never just come without a specific invitation.

He picked up a file from his desk, _might as well make this look official_ and wandered out to Raylan's desk.

Raylan was staring at his screen with a frown on his face, doggedly typing, he wasn't fast, and the style left something to be desired, but at least he employed all ten fingers in the operation. Art took in the pallor, the tired droop of Raylan's posture, the frustrated expression and the general demeanor. Damn. Raylan was eating himself up over something. Perhaps Leslie was right. This was a whole lot more than Raylan's usual terrier at a bone over some vague suspicion of things being wrong.

He placed the file in Raylan's in-tray, for once not overflowing with paperwork. "You best come back after shift, Raylan." He said carefully, trying very hard not to notice the swift flare of relief in Raylan's eyes. This was all a little too strange for Art.


	6. Sleeping

Tim slept most of the afternoon, and woke feeling less whoozy than he expected. The changes of medication seemed to be doing their job. Although his cheeks were still pink from the realization that Doctor Tom meant exactly what he said. Tim was to stay off his leg, and that included crutches, for two days. Knowing that Art's wife was an experienced medical nurse, and being presented with a bedpan to take care of business were two entirely separate things.

However sore his leg was, and however weak and wiped out the infection had left him, Tim didn't think he would ever get used to being helpless like that.

Leslie handled the situation with the practiced impartial efficiency of a trained professional, but Tim still blushed like a schoolboy, and burrowed into the pillows again.

Dammit.

Tim turned his thoughts away from embarrassing bodily functions, and towards more emotional business. Although that had the potential to be embarrassing all by itself.

The morning had been jumbled and painful, but through it all, Tim remembered the lips that met his, a kiss so gentle but full of sweet promise. And dammit, he wanted that.

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Tim was asleep again when Raylan got to Art and Leslie's place. Leslie took one look at her husband's tired deputy and insisted that he sat down and had something to eat before he went in to see Tim.

She could see he was off, his tired responses, the sad look in his eyes, he was very polite, and ate most of what was put in front of him even though she could see his heart wasn't in it.

She waited until she was clearing the table, and had sent Raylan in to be with Tim, "Art Mullen." Leslie fixed her husband with a steely glare, "that boy is exhausted."

Art nodded. "And he's tearing himself apart over what happened."

"I thought it wasn't his fault."

"It wasn't. But that's not stopping Raylan blaming himself for what happened to Tim."

"He needs a rest. Perhaps you could order him to stay here and help with Tim's recovery. Raylan needs it."

Art looked sad and tired himself, but nodded.

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Tim was dozing when Raylan eased into the room quietly.

"Hey."

Twin slits of blue regarded Raylan as he moved up to the bed.

"Y'look like shit." The drawl was slow and mumbled, and so reassuringly Tim that Raylan actually felt almost light-headed with relief.

He sat on the edge of the bed and they stared at each other for a moment. Even admitting to themselves that this had passed the point of no return was impossible, but they both knew there was more.

"Y'stayin'?"

"Yeah." Raylan eased his boots off, "Art thought you needed company."

As covers went, it was pretty lousy, but Tim wasn't going to question it. Instead he watched the slow and slightly fumbling striptease, before Raylan slipped beneath the covers and cuddled up to Tim dressed in only his wife beater and boxers.

The injured marshal watched his friend practically pass out as soon as his head touched the pillow. So much for talking this through.

It would keep. Tim had all the time in the world. He didn't know how far or how deep this would go, but he had all the time in the world. And Raylan was worth fighting for.

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It was very late, and somehow Tim wasn't sleeping. This wasn't working out the way he wanted it to. He was frustrated.

Tim eased himself onto his side very carefully. If Raylan was asleep, Tim didn't want to disturb him. His friend was exhausted, the dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of lack of sleep, the restlessness, and sadness in his expression and body language were saying things that Tim was hoping he wasn't misinterpreting. Although Raylan lying on his side facing Tim, right hand which had been resting on Tim's stomach had moved of its own accord to Tim's hip.

Even though Raylan's eyes were closed, Tim was certain that his lanky cowboy was actually awake.

They were so close, they were sharing the same pillow. Cautiously Tim put up a hand to touch Raylan's cheek, hoping like hell that he hadn't got it wrong. Raylan's eyes half-opened, then closed again as he turned his head and gently kissed Tim's palm.

It was sweet and tender and very loving, something that Tim hadn't really associated with Raylan. They were only centimeters apart.

"Ray."

The brown eyes were still closed. Tim slid closer.

"Y'know it wasn't your fault."

Raylan still wouldn't look at him. Tim moved his hand to the back of Raylan's neck, his fingers gently stroking through Raylan's hair. Their bodies almost touching, Tim leaned forward "I sincerely hope you will not take this amiss, but…" He pressed his lips to Raylan's.

It took a second or two before Tim recognized the moan from deep in Raylan's throat as one of need. He wasn't pulling away, and Tim pressed forward. Raylan's lips parted, it took a couple more seconds to work all the angles out, but then they were kissing passionately.

That was Raylan, all fire and passion, that was what Tim loved and what drove him crazy. Raylan's arms slid around him, and Tim realised that Raylan was as turned on as he was.

They were both barely dressed, but somehow figuring out how to remove clothes while not letting go of each other was defeating them. Raylan wriggled around trying to pull Tim's wife beater over his head, which was when Raylan's knee connected hard with Tim's sore knee.

Tim saw stars, as Raylan was apologizing frantically for hurting him. Keeping one arm firmly around Raylan's waist to make sure he didn't pull back, Tim's other hand found its way around the back of his neck to gently squeeze and hold Raylan close.

"Ssshhhh" Tim soothed, handling Raylan was like handling one of Kentucky's thoroughbreds and if Raylan would have him, Tim planned on spending a lifetime finding out how, but they both had a more pressing carnal need and denial was just a river in Egypt.

They pressed closer again, Raylan moving more carefully. Very gently easing his knee under Tim's heavily bandaged one to bring their bodies into intimate contact.

The answer to his question lay in Raylan's anguished moan, and the way his body pressed hard to Tim's. Which opened up a whole new succession of questions.

Questions that Tim wanted answers to.

Raylan was letting him set the pace, once he was certain Raylan was not pulling away, Tim's hand moved from Raylan's waist, slid in between their bodies and wrapped around Raylan's cock.

Even the featherlight touch of first contact, made Raylan groan. But he didn't stop kissing Tim. Every stroke, every squeeze, Raylan was writhing in Tim's hands, it was incredibly arousing feeling Raylan lose control. Tim knew he wasn't far behind.

One deft squeeze and Raylan was shuddering in his arms, the friction between them brought Tim to climax seconds later. They held on to each other. Tight. Neither wanting to let go.

Raylan eased away gently, despite Tim's grumble. "Darlin' we need to clean up." He came back from the small bathroom with a warm damp cloth and tenderly cleaned the younger marshal. "Sorry about the wet spot." He murmured.

Tim muttered something under his breath, and reached out with a grabby hand. Raylan smiled and dropped the washcloth on the floor, lifted the covers and slid back next to his lover.

Tim settled, head resting against Raylan's shoulder. He ached, but it was a pleasurable ache, his knee hurt less than he thought it might. And Raylan did care.


End file.
